


Unsent

by tiniestdormouse



Category: Pandora Hearts
Genre: Familial Love, Family, Family Feels, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-11 06:33:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5617051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiniestdormouse/pseuds/tiniestdormouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Letters from the dead are addressed to history and to ghosts.</p><p>Originally written for the PH Fanfest.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
            </blockquote>





	Unsent

 

Dear Oz,

The morning is bright and cheery and as I pen this. You are rocking in your bassinet beside me.  Three months old and you are such a happy child, always smiling and making those adorable curling sounds of delight from your tiny, tiny mouth. Everything about you is small and delicate and a miracle. How you view the world is with such adoration and hopeless rapture that I get caught in those feelings as well.

Today a blackbird flew by the window and I saw you reach for its shadow on the wall, and when the bird flew off its branch, you gave a little wail of disappointment. I laughed seeing your pouty face but I also know that a bit of darkness and disappointment will also be fluttering by you. I fear of telling you a dark truth, my lovely, but know that I must.  Your father believes I know naught, but a mother always knows certain things.

I don’t know how to explain the circumstances I am prepared to relate to you in this letter.  I do not want you to think I am sad or shamed of you. I am not. You have been the sweetest joy of my life. This is why it is so extremely difficult to write, yet I know these words must come from me and me only. Your father, perhaps, will believe otherwise about the truth. He loves me deeply, and only wants me to be happy, after all, and he thinks women are fragile creatures and that we cannot cope with pain or loss or suffering lest our souls break. My soul is strong, and I realize that I need to be strong for him and for you, even if it means pretending I do not know the origins of your circumstances.

Know this: sweetest, bright Oz, I am happy and you have made me feel this because you are you, Oz, and you are mine. But you are not a babe from my womb, though you are a child of my heart.

My own infant was born very weak and sickly. He did not breathe when he came forth into the world, and remained still for eight minutes as the midwife fought to put life into him. Those eight minutes were the longest of my life.

The babe breathed, but he wheezed when doing so, and the physician observed in the coming days that the babe most likely had a hole in his heart and his lungs were not fully formed. He had not much long to live.

We were devastated. I had not cried harder before until then and Zai – your father is a man of deep feelings and they do not well up to the surface often.  He clung to me and he kept saying, “I’m sorry, love, I’m sorry,” as if he had been at fault for something that is the gods’ doings, not ours.

After this sorrowful news, Zai took our child and say that there was one more option, one last hope. He knew of a special healer, he said, that knew of the old ways, not the modern medicine we have. And he took the poor babe in his arms and kissed me on my brow.

“I will make everything better,” he told me and that gesture only reminded me of the day he came back after contracting the Gryphon, his head wrapped in bandages and the sight nearly lost in one eye.  “I will make it better,” he said then too, and clutched my hand from his sick bed. That is how your father is, Oz, understand. He is proud and takes all the burdens only himself. Perhaps this strength will serve to shield you in future years. Such I pray.

The next evening your father returned, bearing you. “A miracle,” he pronounced, offering you in my arms. “He is healthy and whole.”

The moment I took you in my embrace, however, I knew. My babe had been returned to the heavens, and you remained. My miracle boy.

I never asked Zai where you came from—the House of Fianna, perhaps, or from the slums of the city, a castoff child some other mother was more than willing to part with for a few gold coins. None of that matters to me.

What matters is how to look into my eyes with those clear green ones. How you recognize my face and hold my finger so tightly in your hand. I see you through the years, my sunshine: growing older, getting taller, learning to run and play and sing. Though I weep for my poor lost one, I have been blessed to be given a second chance to be a new mother.

You have given me so much, Oz. One day, I hope you will read this letter and know that is what makes you special. You didn’t mean to come into my life, but you had, unexpectedly. You are a gift, my love, my golden child. My precious gift.

I will love you, always.

Your mother,

Rachel 


End file.
